


Got to Be a Joker (He Just Do What He Please)

by Carrieosity



Series: Tumblr Bunnies and Ficlets - Supernatural [15]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Human, Bartender Balthazar, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Misunderstandings, Prank Wars, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Writer Castiel (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-28 04:08:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18748714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carrieosity/pseuds/Carrieosity
Summary: Castiel's new neighbor is either a complete lunatic or playing a sadistic joke at his expense.Dean's new neighbor is possibly an asshole, or else a fan of playing pranks.Balthazar's just the bartender. He's not involved.





	Got to Be a Joker (He Just Do What He Please)

**Author's Note:**

> A prompt from [Ltleflrt](https://ltleflrt.tumblr.com/): "Bartendter/bar + Prank War for Destiel please? :)"

“Ah, there he is,” Balthazar said by way of a greeting, glancing up from where he was polishing a bartop that scarcely needed it. The evening was still young, and it was still midweek, so the sound of the door creaking open had caught his attention immediately. He threw a charming grin at the new arrival, which was decidedly not returned. “Good Lord, Castiel. I was about to offer to buy you your first drink as a new soon-to-be regular patron here, but you look as though one drink would knock you off your feet.”

“Give it to me anyway,” Castiel growled, practically throwing himself onto the nearest stool. “Whiskey, straight. And I’m more concerned with quantity than quality, so don’t worry about which bottle.”

Balthazar’s eyebrows crawled high on his forehead. His old friend had never had the sunniest of temperaments, but this was a bit much. “Unpacking going that badly?” he asked as he reached for a bottle of Glenfiddich (never mind what his friend had said; Balthazar had _standards_ ).

“I finished unpacking days ago,” Castiel muttered. “Not all of us have three wardrobes worth of outfits, you realize.” He reached for the glass handed to him and nearly drained it. Balthazar winced at the lack of appreciation for the liquor’s flavor, but he kept the bottle at the ready.

“I realize that,” he said, “as does everyone who sees you on any sort of regular basis. Now that you’re local, I am _going_ to take you shopping, by force if necessary, and get you into something other than that tired, sad trench. Anyway, what you lack in fashion, I’m sure you made up for in crates of musty old books.”

Sighing, Castiel emptied his glass, then pushed it across the counter for a refill. “Point conceded. They’re not musty, though. You know me better than to think I’d let them get damp.”

Long-practiced professionalism kept Balthazar from rolling his eyes at a patron, even one he’d known for decades. “Of course,” he said. “Well, what’s got you so miserable, then? I know it can’t be boredom, dear, because I distinctly recall having phoned you up several times since you’ve arrived, only to be told that you were ‘too busy’ to grace me with your presence.”

Castiel paused before answering, intent on swallowing his second glass of whiskey almost as quickly as the first. When he placed the glass back on the counter, he sighed. “It’s the house,” he said.

Frowning, Balthazar tipped his head to the side. “Really?” he said. “It looked perfectly all right when I saw it before. And for all that he has the charisma of a fart on a subway, Mr. Devereaux isn’t the sort of landlord to neglect his properties, or to cover up any problem areas.”

“No, no, the house itself is fine,” Castiel said, squeezing his eyes shut and waving a hand. “I just didn’t anticipate the sort of neighbor I’d be getting. When I visited the place before I signed the lease, the other half of the townhouse might as well have been unoccupied, other than for the tools and things in their half of the garage. I suppose it’s my fault for not visiting at the _goddamn break of dawn,_ because things are _entirely_ different then.”

“Ouch,” Balthazar said with a shudder. “That’s certainly a bit of a personality clash.” Castiel was a writer, and for as long as they’d known each other, he’d preferred to do the bulk of his work well after midnight. Frequently, Balthazar had arrived back at their shared college apartment after the clubs had closed for the night only to find Castiel was just starting to find his muse.

Castiel grunted, tapping the rim of his glass to signal for more. “Clash,” he muttered. “I have to wonder whether you’ve put your finger on it. There’s something very off about the whole situation, and it makes me wonder whether I’ve somehow offended them, and this is some sort of…” He grimaced, trailing off.

“What do you mean?” Grabbing a second glass, Balthazar filled it with water and nudged it into place beside the first glass in an unspoken hint.

“It’s just…the garage has AC/DC posters hanging over the workbench,” Castiel said. “I know the landlord told me there was just a single man living there, and taking into account the large grill out back, the recycling bin full of beer bottles, the welcome mat that says ‘Wipe your damn feet”...perhaps I’m being unfair in my assessment, but I’m a writer, and using details to paint pictures is what I do.”

“Come to the point, love.”

“Does any part of that add up to the sort of person to blast Celine Dion at seven o’clock in the morning for three days straight?”

Balthazar nearly dropped the bowl of peanuts in horror. “No!”

Castiel ran an exasperated hand through his hair. The bags under his eyes were even more pronounced than usual. “I’m afraid so.”

“But you haven’t done anything to provoke that sort of torture,” Balthazar said. It wasn’t a question; outside of mass kitten extermination, he couldn’t fathom anything that would warrant it.

“I don’t think so?” Castiel said, squinting and shrugging helplessly. “I’ve never even seen the man, and I haven’t left any messes or created any kind of loud disturbances on my side of the house.”

“Hmmm.” Balthazar drummed his fingers along the bartop pensively. “Perhaps, Cassie dear, it’s time to remedy that.”

Castiel gave him a suspicious glare, made less threatening by the weariness in his face. “You’re not suggesting I engage my new neighbor in some sort of war, are you?”

“Never,” Balthazar swore, the absolute face of innocence. “Wars are active things, back and forth. Nasty business. I’m proposing more of a decisive statement.”

It was either a mark of the trust built over their long friendship, or else a sign of severe sleep deprivation, but either way, it was a pleasant surprise how little argument Castiel put up, compared to past situations, when confronted with this sound reasoning.

* * *

“I’m dying.”

Balthazar clucked his tongue. “Please don’t do it on my bar stool. The insurance paperwork, you understand.”

Green eyes, reddened around the irises, glared blearily up at him from over his patron’s folded arms. “Show some sympathy, Bal, or I’ll have the gang plan my post-funeral drinks for Crowley’s Pub instead of here.”

“Now, that’s just uncalled for.” Without waiting for an entirely unnecessary order, Balthazar slid Dean’s regular whiskey with beer chaser along the bar toward the outstretched hand. “Now, tell me the cause of your untimely death. It’s a slow night, and I’m in need of entertainment.”

“Brain tumor,” Dean said, but before Balthazar could suck in a mortified breath, he added, “or else just a really bad headache. Ugh.” Under Balthazar’s reproachful look, Dean made a face. “Cut me some slack. I’m going on about six hours of sleep for the whole weekend.”

“Well, I’m surprised,” Balthazar said. “I remember when the great Party Animal Winchester had no problem staying up all night for days on end in search of a good time. How the mighty do go grey at the temples.”

“Not even my party, though,” Dean complained, shaking his head. “It’s just one thing after another. I told you Sammy’s in visiting me, right?”

“Mmm, the younger brother,” Balthazar acknowledged. Good bartenders always remember their regular patrons’ stories, after all. If anyone fit the definition of “regular patron,” it was this man.

“Well, it turns out that while he was away at college, the kid turned into even more of a morning person, and he likes to exercise at the crack of dawn, like a crazy person. And he’s one of those people who thinks everyone else needs to share the fun, too, so if I don’t want to get roped into jogging up and down the street with somebody who wants to talk about _feelings_ when he sweats, then I gotta fake like work needs me to come in early, like, every damn day.”

“That sounds dreadful,” Balthazar said with complete sincerity.

Dean grimaced. “I mean, that wouldn’t be so bad, since it means I can get home early and crash, but lately I’m getting it at both ends.” Balthazar didn’t even get the chance to appreciate the lovely gift delivered to him on a silver platter, since as soon as Dean realized what he’d said, he lifted a warning finger. “Shut. Up.”

“Only because you asked so nicely,” Balthazar snickered.

“I just mean that I wouldn’t want to go to any parties in the first place when I’m ready to drop, and I don’t really appreciate having to deal with the racket of a party when I’m not even there.” Dean threw back his beer, then exhaled heavily. “Especially frigging _weird_ parties.”

Having hosted more than a few parties most people would consider quite strange, Balthazar decided not to ask for clarification. “If it’s too much, you could always call the police,” he suggested. “There are ordinances against that sort of thing.”

Shrugging, Dean wrinkled his nose. “I mean, I could, but I don’t actually know the guy, right? I’ve only been in the neighborhood a couple of months, and with barbecue season coming up, I was sort of hoping to get off on the right foot with the rest of the people around me. Honestly, I’d have just knocked on their door, but I’ve been too tired to get out of bed to do it.”

“Well, then, you could kill two birds with one stone,” Balthazar suggested. “Test the waters of friendship a bit, see who you’re dealing with? I know you well enough to be certain that if this person has no sense of humor, it’s best to find that out sooner rather than later.”

“I’m not sure I’m following, but go on,” Dean said, “and hit me with another shot while you’re talking.”

Obliging both the drink order and the request for explanation, Balthazar said, “I have an acquaintance who would be quite capable of demonstrating for your neighbor both your unhappiness and your enjoyment of a good joke.” Dean’s raised eyebrow and thoughtful expression was sufficiently encouraging for Balthazar to explain his idea.

* * *

Thursday night was Ladies’ Night, and there was hardly room to breathe. Balthazar mused to himself that perhaps that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, since the breathable air in the bar was almost visibly thickened with the various perfumes emanating from the boisterous crowd.

He had managed to retreat into his back office for a much-needed break, when his cell phone buzzed at his hip.

_[SheDevil] Hey, that guy you gave my info for the gig. He a good friend?_

Balthazar made a face. **_Meg, please do not sleep with him. I’m not a pimp._**

_[SheDevil] Also not my dad. Not the point, though_

Shrugging, Balthazar replied, **_A friend, anyway. Why?_ **

A few moments passed, and the phone buzzed again.

_[SheDevil] Because I’m defecting to join the enemy ;)_

**_What?_ **

_[SheDevil] This guy he sent me to is my new bestie. And, seriously, what kind of idiot tries to send a dominatrix to prank a guy like this?_

_[SheDevil] I showed up in my cop suit, started into the whole “You’ve been bad and bad boys get punished” shtick, and I thought he was having a heart attack_

**_A bit vanilla, is he?_** Which would make that “bestie” relationship a bit of an odd-couple pairing, but Meg was difficult to predict.

_[SheDevil] No, just gayer than a sequined clutch full of rainbows on Tony night_

**_Ah, I see._ **

_[SheDevil] And from what he told me, your friend totally had this coming, so I figured I’d join the side of justice for once_

Cringing, Balthazar felt a pang of sympathy for Dean. **_What are you going to do to that poor boy?_ **

_[SheDevil] Nuh-uh, not telling_

**_Fair, I suppose. Though I doubt his story, since Dean would have told me if he’d struck first. He’d have bragged._ **

_[SheDevil] Yeah, well, he also said I’d be crashing a wild party. Instead it’s just a guy chilling out with his speakers pressed against the wall, blasting some sort of Yiddish hip-hop full volume. I almost cried_

Pausing with his fingers over his phone screen, Balthazar had a brief moment of confusion as something tried to float to the front of his memory. Before he could put his finger on it, though, he was startled by a loud crashing of glass and a shriek from the front of the bar. He supposed his break was over. **_Duty calls. We’ll connect later._ **

_[SheDevil] You wish, pervert_

Rolling his eyes, Balthazar went back to work.

* * *

“That is the last time I listen to you!” Dean’s voice reached Balthazar before he’d even turned around to greet the patron entering the bar. At the sound of the angry words, Balthazar groaned to himself and took his time turning around, forcing a cheerful smile. The smattering of other patrons seated around the bar made no effort to hide their interest in the blossoming confrontation.

“Come, come, now, Dean,” he said, “if you earned yourself a hangover, it had little to do with my liquor recommendations. You brought it on yourself through your own excesses.”

“You know that’s not what I’m talking about,” Dean growled as he marched up to the bar and braced his palms on the wood. “I mean your little ‘test the waters’ plan. I hired your ‘friend,’ who, by the way, took the fee and now refuses to answer any phone calls, so I can only assume she did the job.”

“She did,” Balthazar interjected. He decided not to mention the unexpected direction the job had taken, since that was technically none of his business.

“I know she did!” Dean shouted. “And I guess I got my answer, for what it’s worth.”

“Ah, he’s a humorless bastard,” Balthazar guessed.

“Oh, no. No, he thinks he’s a real funny guy,” Dean said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “In fact, he sent me a little gift in return. Big giant box on my porch this afternoon, completely covered in big, bright letters telling the whole damn _world_ how I’m now happily subscribed to the ‘Manties of the Month’ club.” Someone on the other side of the bar room choked on their drink, coughing loudly as they tried to recover.

Balthazar frowned in thought. “Manties?”

“Yeah, you know. Man…panties. Manties.” Dean huffed, folding his arms. “And in case anyone didn’t get the joke, there were pictures. Happy little cartoon dudes in lace panties, just letting it all hang out.”

“Oh, my.” _Must not laugh. Must not laugh. Oh, God, I’m going to break._

“If that wasn’t bad enough, it got there while I was at work. My little brother had to sign for the thing. Do you have any idea how long he’s going to give me shit for this?”

“I can only speak for myself,” Balthazar said, then hastened to add, “Speaking as a younger brother, I mean. One who would show no mercy on his sibling. Not to imply that I am anything but sympathetic toward you, personally—”

“Yeah, yeah, you can stop digging,” Dean growled. “Jesus, the box and the writing was big enough that the people across the street are probably going to be side-eyeing me.”

“That sounds dreadful.” _Dreadfully hilarious._ “How many, er, manties were featured in such a large crate? It seems quite a lot of effort and expense for a prank.”

Dean snorted dismissively, sitting down and pointing toward the whiskey shelf. “Eh, a bunch, but a lot of them were fugly. Probably got ‘em clearanced somewhere. Most of them, I shoved in the rag bag for cleaning.”

In the act of grabbing Dean’s usual bottle, Balthazar hesitated. Glancing over his shoulder, he lifted an eyebrow. “Most?” he repeated.

A light blush colored freckled cheekbones, but Dean smirked without looking away. “Well, I mean. They weren’t _all_ hideous.” Before Balthazar could pull his jaw off his chest, Dean shifted on his stool. “Maybe a little tight, though,” he muttered.

“Dean Winchester, are you…” Balthazar said, his voice hitting a rather higher register than usual in his state of shock. He cleared his throat and tried again, more quietly. “Are you wearing women’s underwear right now?”

“Not women’s. Men’s. Manties, remember?” Completely shameless, Dean rose from the stool where he sat. Turning his side toward Balthazar, he lifted the long hem of his flannel overshirt to show where, rising above where the worn jeans rode low on his hips, a band of black lace circled his waist, bordering what were apparently a pair of vividly green panties. _Manties,_ Balthazar corrected himself.

“Very lovely,” he replied, not knowing what else to say.

“YOU!” Another voice, growling from the doorway to the bar, made both men jump and turn. There, backlit by the streetlights outside, stood Castiel, practically bristling with indignation.

“Yeah, me?” Dean said, sounding bewildered. “Do I know you?”

Greatly belatedly, the puzzle pieces that had started to connect in Balthazar’s head several days prior finally clicked into place. “I’ll just go see if anyone needs any refills,” he said discreetly, glancing around. Naturally, everyone was far more invested in seeing how this played out than they were in the state of their mugs.

Castiel stalked forward, eyes narrowed. Dean crossed his arms in response to the challenge, not a bit cowed. When they were almost nose to nose, Castiel jabbed his forefinger into Dean’s waist, eliciting a grunt of startled protest. “Those are mine,” he said darkly.

“I beg your pardon?” Dean said slowly, taking a single step backward.

“I mean,” said Castiel impatiently, “that I am the one who sent them. I presume that you are the complete assbutt who’s been playing practical jokes on a complete stranger, then?”

“Oh, I’m the—what did you call me?” Dean’s return volley nearly got sidetracked by his confusion, but he quickly regained his stride. “I’m not the one who started this! You’re the guy who moved in and started throwing all those weird rap-polka parties every night!”

“Only a moron conflates all Yiddish music with polka,” Castiel said scathingly. “It’s Klezmer, not—”

“I don’t care what it is!”

“Well, you have no room to talk, Mr. ‘My Heart Will Go On’!”

“Okay, first, I have no idea what you’re talking about, and second—”

“Are you actually going to claim you _haven’t_ been waking the house every morning with—”

Balthazar made his way around the bar, refilling every napkin dispenser and bowl of peanuts that were the tiniest bit low. He was no coward, but it did seem prudent to avoid drawing any attention to himself, hopefully lowering the chances of being pulled into an argument that had absolutely nothing to do with him. Nothing whatsoever.

_“You are the most stubborn, rude—”_

_“—my little brother, man! Dragging in other people—”_

A man sitting at the corner of the bar waved a hand toward Balthazar, who jumped to respond. “Whoever wins, I wanna buy them a drink,” the man said, gesturing toward the fight.

“I’ll buy the loser’s drink,” the man beside him piped in. “‘S’good entertainment.”

_“Should have thrown her into the ocean with the damn boat—”_

_“I keep telling you, I don’t even own—”_

The argument continued, and neither man showed any signs of surrender. Eventually, Balthazar was able to subtly shepherd the battling pair into a booth, just to get them out of people’s way; neither of them paused to even acknowledge his presence. Their new location had the added benefit of allowing the fascinated audience to send over liquid encouragement, which Dean and Castiel swallowed with barely a thought.

_“—and another thing! That space-hogging car of yours—”_

_“Oh, don’t you dare bring Baby into this.”_

Balthazar gave up feeling concerned. They weren’t shouting anymore, at any rate, however much they might be hissing into each other’s faces. As long as they didn’t seem likely to come to blows, he decided that he could simply let them have at it. Certainly, it was wisest for him to stay out of the mess.

Oh, dear. Perhaps he had spoken too soon. Castiel was out of his seat, looming over the table, fists twisting in Dean’s shirt—

Well. Never mind. Whatever this new development was, it was definitely not an escalation toward physical violence. When Dean practically hauled Castiel the rest of the way over the table and into his lap, though, Balthazar did begin to question the wisdom of continuing to stay uninvolved. Luckily, before he had to reach a decision, the two of them were stumbling toward the door.

“You’re still an assbutt, though,” he heard Castiel growl, as the door slammed behind them.

**Author's Note:**

> I have never written Balthazar POV before, and I decided that needed to be remedied.


End file.
